


A familiar feeling

by Surnia_Ulula



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: 14 year old girl, Gen, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Runaway, Witch - Freeform, a young witch living in a no-maj world, mention of abortion, mention of rape
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-20
Updated: 2020-03-20
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:48:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23231224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Surnia_Ulula/pseuds/Surnia_Ulula
Summary: I started this by compiling lines from different songs and it kind of transformed into a broken young witch who lives alone in NYC.





	A familiar feeling

I had a dream. I got everything I wanted. Not what you’d think.  
And if I’m being honest it might have been a nightmare. It felt like yesterday was a year ago, but I don’t want to let anybody know. It seems like everyone wants something from me now. And I don’t want to let them down.  
Tear me to pieces, skin to bone. Isn’t it lovely all alone. Heart made of glass, my mind of stone.  
Giving you what you’re begging for, giving you what you say I need. And when you walk out the door and leave me torn, I feel like Jeffery Dahmer. With a black and white picture clutched in a tight sweaty fist, and pill caught in my throat.  
With my hair in a tight, dirty, dull bun, nobody even noticed.  
If they knew what they said would go straight to my head, what would they say instead.

But when I wake up, I feel you with me. Something in my mind, always in my headspace.

Thought I found a way out. But you’ll never go away. Dancing with your ghost, I need a place to hide but I can’t find one near. Isn’t it lovely, all alone.

I’m not afraid anymore. What makes you sure?

With my green overshirt knotted at my belt, light, forest green, sad, dull sleeves unbuttoned and rolled up along with the black sleeves of my undershirt. With my cheap black belt from Target, my baggy camo pants hide my newly growing stomach. Thirsty, as always, my arms burn. I feel the tracks of my veins begging me. Dirty white rimmed nails clutch at them. Swallowing dryly, closing my eyes. The subway car is almost empty. A little ginger rat’s my company. Sweating in the chilly train car, I tilt my head up towards the flickering fluorescent yellow lights.  
Deep breaths, I think.  
In…..Two….Three…..Out, Two….Three….  
Feeling her squirm inside of me, I gasp as a vertigo wraps its little claws around my intestines. Throwing my feet on the ground, I toss my head down. Squeezing my ears between my thighs I hold so, so still. Slowly covering her with my arms, I arch my back and drag my head up, slumping forward onto my knees. I feel my head move slowly, back and forth as my eyes fix upon the delicate crimson train tracks leading from my neck to my toes. My paler fingers sliding through my ratty hair, I squeeze my them shut, gasping for air.  
“End, end, end, end end end end end please…..

It’s okay. I’m just dehydrated.

In half a daze, I remember their words. I always remember their words. 

This isn’t allowed to be me. A fourteen year old girl.  
I look like I have everything, but I don’t. I am another cog in a machine. Another piece of treasure in one's hord. Another poor orphan, found young enough for them to say I can’t cry over it. Fuck that.  
I taught myself everything I know out of necessity. Young witches alone at night aren’t exactly an uncommon sight in New York City.

Everything. I’ve let everything else slide now, for you, society. I held back tears when I was called fat and ugly. When they called me ugly not only because I was fat, they said, but because I had a little face tick, where I would crinkle my nose and upper lip.  
I was called that by the people I was told I was supposed to love and trust. Ironic, isn’t it. I didn’t even cry after the rape. Or abortion. I’m just skipping from one broken family to the next, at least it was also one loving family to another that says they love me. That is, if the second one didn’t lie. Like they lied about her name, and her job, and her partner, and her children, and where she lived. Where I lived.  
What she wanted for me. What she wants from me now.  
They lied about me, to me. They don’t see that. They lied about my mother, my family's support system, my father, my brothers, sisters, and where I lived. They are my family. They are. Just an older one.  
I find it funny how all it takes is the flick of a pen, and your mother who held you, kissed you, cried over you, isn’t your mother. Your brothers aren’t your brothers. Your sister isn’t your sister. There is something that a signature can’t kill. Something we all feel deep, deep down. That is why I killed mine. I couldn’t live knowing that feeling fester in another little body. The feeling that something is wrong. Very, very wrong. The desperate feeling, pure grief. There's a mourning that will hit you, sometime in your life. It is a horrible mourning. Pure, pure grief. Thicker than molasses, it will slowly drip down your forehead. From the first tiny, lukewarm droplet on your head, It will drip, drip, drip down… slowly, never speeding up. I wish it was fast, a quick burn. But no, It’s so, so, slow. So slow. It will cover your ears, and eyes, and nose and mouth. You will never feel true pain until you feel this mourning. When it covers your whole body, you will burn. Like acid. You don’t know how to make it stop. It seems you're a fountain, acid dripping from every pore as you can’t name one person you were told to trust who hasn’t lied to you. The ones whom I can are all required to tell the demons everything, and then they will make it harder for me to find truth. If they only knew what goes on in my mind. How often does my mother think of me? I think of her.

Like light grey smoke in a pitch black space she handed me to unknowing eyes, when she turned she burned. The new fathers drop me in the grey and I feel hands covering my mouth, touching me everywhere. Everywhere. And when I rise again, bleeding afresh, they reach out but I panic, not seeing who I used too. I see two broken people, and I turn back to the smoke and see nothing. She’s not there. And I’m burning too.

Imma fucking cry over something I don’t even know really exists but Imma fucking cry beause that is one thing I can hold on too. A sloppily folded sonogram that says No ID. I can see her heartbeat next to mine. I wonder how she felt about mine. I wonder if she ever thought what seeing her own heartbeat next to mine meant to me. She folded it. I know she did. The fathers who took me in are both far too neat to ever fold something that would be so important to them so messily. 

It’s really lonely when you seem to be the only one on earth whose head works the way mine does. That’s not a good thing. I don’t want my head. I know it works different because everybody else is okay, and all I want to do is slit my wrists and watch the blood drip down on thick paper. All I want to do is eat, but I don’t want to have to swallow. All I want to do is hug my mother, tell her it's okay but whenever I say her name humans look at me as if I just cursed Jesus in a church.

**Author's Note:**

> I love constructive criticism.


End file.
